The Life and Death Collection
by Miss Peg
Summary: A collection of one-shots starring Red John. Latest Update: The Angel of Death - The world was made up of opposites.
1. The Angel of Death

**Title: **The Angel of Death  
><strong>Author: <strong> **miss_peg**  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17 (violence/horror)  
><strong>Summary:<strong> The world was made up of opposites.  
><strong>Notes: <strong>I came up with the idea of this story whilst reading someone else's (The Reddest Devil by Unbeautifully-Broken) and in their story was the line 'There could be no light without darkness' which is how this story began. It's rather dark but I hope you enjoy it all the same.

The world was made up of opposites.

Dry and wet.

Tall and short.

Ying and yang.

Bravery and cowardice.

Micro and macro.

Light and dark.

Life and death.

Some called him a murderer, a serial killer, a horrific excuse for a human being, a monster. But without monsters there were no saints. Without murders people didn't understand the sanctity of life. Without the darkness that he thrust upon them, the world didn't know just what light truly meant.

Patrick Jane and his little team of agents were the heroes, the brave people who put the bad guys in jail.

It made him sick.

_He _was the hero.

The person who made others see what their life really meant to them, how much they really loved their family and friends. Without his criminality they went about life as though it was something they were owed. Happiness was a given, life was expected and any alternative was too horrible to think about, too soon or simply unfair.

They were wrong.

Life was fragile.

Life could be given and life could be taken away. He knew that better than anyone.

He'd witnessed the horrors of life; of cancer, of murder, of rape. He'd suffered at the hands of people who deserved everything they got excepting the title family. His happiness had been sacrificed by the people who existed to protect him.

Nobody and nothing was sacred and anyone who considered otherwise was as deranged as they considered him to be.

He was the only sane one in the sorry mess that everyone had created for themselves.

Death comes to everyone eventually. But they don't accept that, not anymore. They want to live forever, they want to cure every disease, they want to birth every child healthy and without flaws.

The world needed flaws.

Beauty only came from the absence of it and life only appears sweeter when there's a loss of it.

They forget that after a while.

Life moves on, as they say. They suffer loss and they weep for their loved one and then when the dust settles and the pain grows weaker they continue to live as though that person never even existed.

That's what he liked about Patrick Jane. He understood the sanctity of life and death. He didn't forget that death had once consumed him and though he carried on living he clung to the idea that he, too, could make someone pay for the destruction of his family. Just like he had done all those years ago when he'd punished Patrick for his crimes.

But even he believed that his actions were wrong. That his murderous hands should not have done what they did.

He was misunderstood.

Blood spilled on his hands not because he wanted to kill, though it did feel good to thrust that knife into the body of some unsuspecting victim, to stare into their eyes and watch the life drain from them.

He did it because he needed to.

Someone needed to balance the essence of life in order to remind people how important it was.

Without him the world would be off balance.

Humans would destroy themselves and the planet through their selfish desire to avoid death. He couldn't sit by and allow that to happen, not when his role was as vital as a doctor in a hospital.

Their job was to save lives; to make the people better who needed to live...his job was to take the lives of everyone else.

He was a warrior seeking out battles in order to allow the rest of the world their happiness.

He was the angel of death.


	2. Foresight

**Title**: Foresight

**Author**: miss_peg

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: Nobody knew what you knew.

**Notes**: I'm on a major block at the moment, so I'm not even sure where this came from…written for the Paint It Red monthly challenge for April!

You watch her from a distance. Trying to save the world as she does every single day, making it seem like a fun task and not the chore that it should be. She kills people regularly, for money. Some could say there was something strange about that, she was a hired hit man, so to speak. A _legal_ hit man.

That was something she had never quite grasped about you. You didn't kill people for the fun of it, you were like her. You did a service to the public; you saved the world from people who would one day screw them over.

Nobody realised then; they just saw the blood and your signature smiley face and they saw the death of someone they assumed to be innocent.

They didn't know what you knew.

Nobody knew what you knew.

You didn't even want to know it. You didn't ask to be this way. Nobody gave you a choice. You were forced to have this gift, this foresight that allowed you to see just where your victims would end up if they didn't become your victims.

Patrick Jane's family, well, they were collateral damage. You knew that if you didn't kill them then you couldn't control him; force him to bend to your every whim or come running should you call.

Without him and his need for revenge, you wouldn't be close to her, close enough that you can almost taste her perfume or smell her desire.

It infuriates you that Jane has her wrapped around his little figure, their little bond that seems unnatural through your tinted glasses. You know it's never going to end well, for both of them. If he doesn't cause her death one way or another, then you may have to kill her, merely to toy with his emotions further.

Or maybe you'll kill him, just to toy with _hers_.

She doesn't know just how much you know about her, about her past. She hasn't stopped to realise that Jane was never the person he cared about, he was merely a pawn in the game of life. A game which somehow had become so messed up that you weren't even sure what the rules were anymore.

It started with her and you hoped that one day it would end with her too.

You sit in your office across the street, binoculars resting against your eyes as you stare into her glass prison. She'd hardly changed it in the years that you'd worked from there, a new couch, a new pen holder. She didn't personalise it, always the professional. That was something you always admired about her, her drive to be the best that she could be regardless of what it did to her social life.

It killed you to watch her and know that you could never touch her skin, breath in her scent or press your lips against hers.

Sometimes you lie awake at night daydreaming of what you would do to her, all of the wicked things that you would do if you could.

It's late when she leaves the office. You don't know why you do it, but you follow her out onto the street. She parked her car a few streets away because the CBI parking lot was being resurfaced. It was the perfect opportunity. You shouldn't get so close and yet you can't stop your legs from moving on down the stairs and out into the cold night air.

You follow at a distance, your footsteps gentle and unnoticed. You creep along behind her like a stalker, watchful of any movement that might alert her to your existence. She stops by the door to her car, her hand resting on the handle ready to pull it open.

You make your move.

You don't say anything and she doesn't respond. You lay the cold, sharp knife against her throat. She feels it, you know she does because she tenses up in front of you and you're able to breath heavily into her ear. You drag her down the alley at the end of the street and force her against the wall, her hands pressed against the bricks.

She tries to speak, but the knife is already cutting into her skin. You bury your face into the crook of her neck and take in a deep breath, inhaling every last second of her body. Then you run your lips along her collar bone. She shivers under your touch. You want to turn her around and kiss her on the lips, but you can't. You can't let her know who you are.

So you run your fingers along her hands, tracing the direction her blood flows along her arms and you kiss her neck. You try to read her, to understand exactly what she might do next. You don't think she'll fight you off, she's not stupid, she knows who you are and she knows what you're capable of.

In one very brief movement, you walk away, the knife removed with little damage and all that is left is the lingering moment of lust that you were sure you both could feel.

You can't kill her, even if you wanted to.


End file.
